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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

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BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
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“Did he love them? Did he know enough to love them?” she demanded, almost fiercely.
“He has regrets.”
She looked away. “Regrets, of course. We all have regrets. We who are blessed with memory.”
She regarded him coldly then, wondering, he knew, if she was telling these things to a stranger. Neither Ethan’s name, nor his old one fit her lips anymore. He wondered if she would cease calling him anything, and so bury him, too. Out. He must get out, before that.
“Jordan Foster will listen to you.” He tried another tack, his French-trained reason. The Boston-bred doctor from Norfolk was her chance to be rid of him. Jordan Foster would kill or cure him. Either way, he would leave her to her everlasting grief. Let her understand that. “If you intercede, I’m sure he’ll consider doing what is necessary to help me walk again.”
“I could not possibly—”
“You trusted him with teaching your children,” he pressed. “And together you preserved the whole plantation at the time of the measles epidemic. Sally says he saved soldiers’ limbs in the last war. Will you write to him on my behalf, about performing the surgery necessary?”
“You ask a difficult thing.”
“But I am willing to take the risks—”
“You do not think of him!”
“Him?”
“Him, yes, him, you selfish boy! He believes you are my son! How will he live with himself should you die under his knife?”
Her cheeks had gone from flushed to white. He smiled uneasily. “Well. Then he will at least be rid of this bothersome magpie who—”
Her slap yanked his head back hard enough to hear his neck crack, to make the side of his face numb. It began to sting.
Anne Randolph stared at her hand as if it didn’t belong to her. “My dear God,” she said in a splintered whisper.
He lowered his head, so she wouldn’t have the pain of looking at him. “I only wanted to make you laugh,” he whispered. “I only ever want to make you laugh.”
“Don’t you understand? You are almost him to me now.”
“Who?” He wanted the word. He wanted his name from her lips just once, for his pain.
“Ethan. My Ethan. You must not talk of taking risks, dying. Not now, not when you’ve just barely come back.”
“Almost, almost back. Sally says her belief is strong enough for us both. It is not, is it? It is not for you, or for me. I am your heir in that. My dreams, my remembrances are tricks, explained away by your sons. They think me a simpleton, they think Judith the dark mistress of a scheme. I lack the experience of most men my age, my body is crippled. But I need to know myself, Anne Randolph, as badly as you need to know me. Dr. Foster, he has the key, does he not?”
“Don’t, please.”
Tears came with her pleading. But he would not take the blame for them, not this time. His face still stung. He would not bury himself to ease her pain. “I’m not your little boy. I’m a man,
m-madame
,” he stammered.
“You can’t do it!” Anne Randolph said, astonished. “You can’t do it, either. You can’t call me Mother!”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry for it. We are kindred spirits in that, too. Both lost. There’s comfort. Yes?” she imitated his French cadence.
He sighed. “You find odd sources of comfort.”
She laughed, kissing his cheek where she’d slapped him moments before. What would Judith make of this exchange? He suddenly felt very tired. Anne Randolph rose, gracefully glided among the windows, closing the shutters. Gliding, like a dancer. Around and around. No, that dancing was a dream, only a dream. Then she was there again, this beautiful woman, putting his legs up, covering him with a quilt.
“Rest now, stubborn sailor,” Anne Randolph whispered. “You’ve won. I will converse with your father on this.”
Judith watched as Ethan pulled off his riding glove and massaged
behind Cavalier’s ears. “Perhaps you are not so old, nor I so lame, yes?” he said, laughing. “Perhaps we will confound them.”
You have confounded them
, Judith thought, with a mixture of sadness and delight as she watched him replace the glove. Ethan sat high in the
saddle, for all the world like a powerful young centaur. He would stay in the saddle forever, if Windover didn’t also have his mother, his sister and her beautiful children, and its library.
The horse and its rider disappeared beyond the giant oak, on their favorite trail, along the high ridge that overlooked the James River. The falls were there, and the salt marsh. The James led to the Atlantic, Ethan’s link to who he used to be: Washington, Fayette’s child.
What did he think of that other world, the one they visited daily? It was beyond the orchard of fruit trees, the poplars, cypress, crepe myrtle—the hardworking world of Windover’s slaves.
Judith returned her attention to her letter.
Father, though I praise his progress, let me not give the impression that our Washington has conformed to his family’s ways. Ethan has forgotten none of his skill or resourcefulness. He casts about the heaps of discarded refuse in the slave quarters for materials for his ships. His brothers and their wives chide him for not engaging in more useful activity, but I think in their hearts they are glad that he refuses what his aged father pushes him toward, the stewardship of Windover itself. Now our Washington’s handsome vessels are gifts to grateful household children of all colors.
He is withdrawn with his own family, however—a beggar at the feast, despite the remarkable remembrances. His brothers’ animosity is an undercurrent, growing more powerful as the women’s love for him grows.
“Miss Mercer, I should like a word with you.”
Judith raised her head to see the afternoon sun blocking Clayton Randolph’s form. “Of course,” she said quietly. It had been a long time since she’d reminded the clergyman to use no title with her name. If her father had been here, with his gently persuasive ways, he’d have been more successful.
“We have prepared an offer.”
“Offer?”
“You have been our guests the better part of the season. As harvest approaches, we will no longer have the time to be patient. Despite all you see, my father is not cash-rich, not since the loss of the
Ida Lee
, Jefferson’s embargo, Madison’s war. But my brother and I agree to a small fee so that your sailor can learn some trade. He is not a dull boy, I’m sure he can apprentice himself to some worthy Quaker person. He seems inclined
toward your notions. I’m sure with some patient instruction—”
“What dost thou say, Clayton Randolph?” Judith whispered.
He came closer. “He may have the horses—Patchwork and Cavalier both. And a stipend for a five-year apprenticeship. But you must go.”
“Go?”
“Be reasonable, woman! He doesn’t remember us. We don’t accept him as our own.”
“His mother—”
“
My
mother has been turned away from reality for a great many years now. This vain hope, and my sister’s stubborn belief, neither will stand. They are women. And our aged father? He will be humiliated if he resists our decision. We’ll have him examined for competency. He will be ruled against. None of the results of your scheming will stand. Not in court. Would you destroy this family, Miss Mercer?”
Judith felt as if her head was between a vise. The truth was the small, lonely voice whispered among the babble inside. Clayton Randolph’s voice turned almost kind, its tone right for a man of God. The words were not. “This is the best you can do. Make him one of your own. You get to keep him, then, don’t you? You must see—”
“The truth.”
“Then look down your nose. Do not commit the sin of pride again.”
“Pride?”
“Come, Miss Mercer. We are not that unalike. You had Jefferson, Madison, and your spotless reputation behind you. You couldn’t let go of your notion then, of course. My brother and I, we understood. But time has passed. This is your chance to make all right. Your sailmender would go. He would do anything you advised, you know that.”
“If that is so, I must not abuse my influence.”
“Who is being abused now? My mother and sister! My father looking for his lost ship and fortune as well as his son in this man’s eyes! And he himself, caught without memory or bearing, infirm in body and mind!”
“How dare thou speak him so? He is not infirm!”
“You women may have Jordan Foster coming today. But we have well-paid physicians who will swear otherwise, about the young man as well as the old one.”
Judith bit back her words, buried her fists in her skirts. Clayton Randolph crossed the boundary he’d always maintained between them to whisper at her ear:
“You have not failed, Miss Mercer. It’s your subject who has failed you. Cut your losses. Take your prize convert and go home. Our offer
stands until harvesting begins. After that we will give you the fight of your life. And you will lose.”
When Judith had finally gained control of herself, he’d gone. She stared down at the letter in her lap. She could not see the words. She could only see Ethan, in plain attire, smiling at her. Ethan, a convinced Quaker. As her father’s new son, he’d replace her brothers and sisters, those little bodies growing cold as the stone around the hearth. She’d carried the coldness of her murdered family inside her so long. With Ethan as her helpmeet, in her bed over winter nights, she’d never be cold again. The vision was a sweet possibility. Was it a holy one?
Martha nudged Judith’s side with a basket smelling of freshly baked bread.
“Where they off to now?” she demanded.
Judith wiped her eyes hastily with the backs of her hands. “Ethan’s riding Cavalier today. They’ll return soon. Sit with me, Martha. I’m just finishing.” Judith made room for her on the quilt.
“You and Master Ethan and your letters. Post rider’s never had so much work at the place! Who’s this one for?”
“My father.”
“He’s done found a place for you up north, Miss Judith? That be his news?”
Judith glanced down. “Yes. Yes, he has.”
“Don’t tell Master Ethan. Not today. He be so happy today, with his doctor finally comin’.”
Her father had not questioned how long she’d chosen to remain at Windover. But their Monthly Meeting soon would. Judith felt Martha’s hand at her shoulder and instinctively pressed her cheek against it.
This woman and her Aaron were the pillars of the other half of Windover. Aaron’s wife breathed warmth—from her kind face to a lean but soft body that sloped into a lap that Judith had seen fit three children at once. Her coppery tone and high cheekbones spoke of a Cherokee slave ancestor mixed with Africans. Martha was Anne Randolph’s age. The two had been girls together a half century before. Their lives continued to intertwine when Martha was sent to Windower as part of her young mistress’s dowry. Now—wars, children, epidemics later—the slavewoman looked as resilient as Anne Randolph looked delicate. Still, both had survived, together, their stations in life. Judith wondered at it.
Horse, rider, and a watchful Aaron came into view again. Together, the two women watched. Martha frowned, shaking her high head.
“Too soon for Cavalier. Should of stayed on Patchwork longer. Master Ethan not near fattened up enough for Cavalier’s spills.”
“Your latest bounty should help, Martha.”
The woman looked down at the basket. “I trust you with a secret, Miss Judith. Ain’t my fancy white bread’s got him filling out. It’s corn.” She lifted a linen cloth to reveal a plain, round loaf of grainy yellow beside a hunk of cheese and bottle of red wine.
“Corn? But you don’t serve corn at the big house.”
“When Master Ethan brings you down to quarters for your Bible stories? He has that man of mine sneak him in my kitchen for spoon bread and boiled-up corn besides! He’s got a mighty taste for it. Shall I leave you some?”
“Yes, please.”
Judith was grateful for Martha’s trust. If Ethan’s brothers found out this taste for food deemed fit only for slaves and farm animals, they would surely use it against him. Ethan Randolph’s sole enemies remained his brothers and their wives, the straight-backed Hester and fussy Clara. Even their influence was dwindling daily. Clayton knew it, hence his offer.
Ethan rode to the women. He leaned over the saddle, and removed his hat. “Martha,” he said, then placing his hat back on his head, “Judith.”
“Master Ethan,” Martha shouted. “You disrespectful of your lady?”
“No, I—”
“You get that hat off your head ’fore I knock it off.”
“But, Martha—” he beseeched.
“You don’t needs to take no sass from him, Miss Judith.” She sniffed. “He only the third son.”
Judith laughed, knowing Martha would not dare tease Ethan’s brothers with such banter. That set him apart from his family, too.
“Judith,” Ethan demanded, “tell her!”
“Ethan is greeting a Quaker in a perfectly proper fashion, Martha,” she finally admitted.
“Even a lady?”
“We make no distinction.”
The black woman considered her words. “So that be the price of having your women speak out at meetings? You don’t get no bows, no tipped hats, no hands to help you from carriages?”
Judith smiled slowly. “Perhaps that is the price,” she realized.
“Did your daddy once farm with the labor of slaves, Miss Judith?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Did he free his people? Is that why you be poor?”
“We’re not poor, Martha.”
“You got no home. You dress poor.”
“We choose to dress plain. We’ll have a home soon.”
“Do Quakers follow Jesus? I loves your Moses stories, Miss Judith, but do Quakers go by the same as the Baptist preacher’s Bible?”
“The same.”
Ethan cocked his head. “For what do you barter with Judith now?” he demanded of Aaron’s wife.
The woman’s face sliced into a grin of delight. “Me, master? What would I wants? Already got us our Bible stories, reading that singing-strong voice of Miss Judith here. Serves to balance out you and your card tricks corruptin’ the young ones of a Saturday evenin’.”
“How long did you keep the lamp burning learning cat’s-tail yourself, you great Tartuffe?”
“You sassin’ me now?” she stormed, shaking her finger at him. “Better not take to sassin’ me, young master! Not as rail-thin a man you still is! And not the cook your woman ain’t till I shows her the ways of my kitchen.”
Judith laughed. “Martha, if thee succeeds where legions of angelic women have failed, thee will die seeing God.”
“I see the Almighty’s works already, miss,” the servant whispered, her bantering suddenly sobered as they watched Ethan dismount into Aaron’s arms. “I see them in the changes you two done brought this mournful place.”
There were changes—dizzying changes, Judith thought. The elder Winthrop Randolph was recovering from the illness all thought would be his last. Ethan’s sad, beautiful mother was even moving out of the habits of her grief. The servants doted on this third son of their master to the last man, woman, and child. Was it real affection? Did they see in him a kindred spirit in his own captivity? Or another master to be flattered into favor?
Only Jordan Foster had disappointed Ethan, in declining his mother’s invitation to visit, though he was the most diligent of Ethan’s correspondents. Today, even that disappointment would end. It was all meant to be, wasn’t it? Not the future Clayton Randolph described.
It was not a burst of pride that had turned her into an avenging angel aboard the
Standard
, when he’d whispered that these were not his people. When he’d spoken of staying at sea. It was not pride. It was the Truth, wasn’t it? Judith wished her father were here to help her sort through her doubts.
Martha deposited her bounty of the warm, covered loaf of corn bread, cheese, wine, and glasses on the cloth beneath the willow tree. Aaron walked both Cavalier and his wife to the big house to deliver her remaining loaves.
Judith placed her writing supplies into their box. It was her favorite time, under the dappled shade beside Ethan. She would think no more of changes today. Nor of leavetaking.
Ethan removed his coat and she caught the scent of summer honeysuckle his nieces had pressed in the pocket of his rose-and-gold-brocaded waistcoat before the ride.
“I didn’t know your family owned slaves, Judith,” he said, leaning back on his elbows.
She stopped breaking off the cheese. “It was a long time ago. Before I was born. I am not impoverished.”
He put up his hands. “I was not thinking of that. Judith, listen. I remember no childhood with these people. Will I never learn yours? I wish to know your family, your Society. I wish to know the little girl from where your beauty, your generosity, your unshakable faith comes.”
BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
10.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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